The Moonlit Way Part 70

"Oh, Lord! They would like to eat him! Or be eaten by him! You know?

It is that way always between the handsome poet and the s.e.x. Which eats which is of no consequence, so long as they merge. Eh?" And his thunderous laughter set the empty gla.s.ses faintly ringing on the butler's silver tray.

Garry spoke to Mrs. Gerhardt, a large, pallid, slabby German who might have been somebody's kitchen maid, but had been born a _von_.

Later, as dinner was announced, he contrived to speak to Thessalie aside:

"Gerhardt," he whispered, "doesn't recognise you, of course."

"No; I'm not at all apprehensive."

"Yet, it was on his yacht----"

"He never even looked twice at me. You know what he thought me to be?

Very well, he had only social ambitions then. I think that's all he has now. You see what he got with his Red Eagle," nodding calmly toward Mrs. Gerhardt, who now was being convoyed out by the monocled martyr in the "stiff s.h.i.+rt."

The others pa.s.sed out informally; Lee had slipped her arm around Dulcie. As Garry and Thessalie turned to follow, he said in a low voice:

"You feel quite secure, then, Thessa?"

She halted, put her lips close to his ear, unnoticed by those ahead:

"Perfectly. The Gerhardts are what you call fatheads--easily used by anybody, dangerous to no one, governed by greed alone, without a knowledge of any honour except the German sort. But that Irish dreamer over there, _he_ is dangerous! That type always is. He menaces the success of any enterprise to which his quixotic mind turns, because it instantly becomes a fixed idea with him--an obsession, a monomania!"

She took his arm and walked on beside him.

"I know that fascinating, hot-headed, lovable type of mystic visionary," she said, "handsome, romantic, illogical, governed entirely by emotion, not fickle yet never to be depended on; not faithless, but absolutely irresponsible and utterly ignorant of fear!... My father was that sort. _Not_ the hunting cheetah Cyril and Ferez pretended. And it was in _defence_ of a woman that my father died.... Thank G.o.d!"

"Who told you?"

"Captain Renoux--the other night."

"I'm so glad, Thessa!"

She held her flushed head high and smiled at him.

"You see," she said, "after all it is in my blood to be decent."

The Gerhardts, racially vulgar and socially blunt--for the inherent vulgarity of the Teutonic peoples is an axiom among the civilised--made themselves characteristically conspicuous at the flower-laden table; but it was on Murtagh Skeel that all eyes became ultimately focused to the limit of good-breeding. He was the lode-star--he was the magnet, the vanis.h.i.+ng point for all curiosity, all surmises, all interest.

Perfect breeding, perfect unconsciousness of self, were his minted marks to guarantee the fineness of his metal. He was natural without effort, winning in voice, in manner, in grace of mind and body, this fascinating Irishman of letters--a charming listener, a persuasive speaker, modest, light hearted, delightfully deferential.

Seated on the right of Mrs. Barres, his smiling hostess very quickly understood the situation and made it pleasantly plain to everybody that her guest of honour was not to be privately monopolised.

So almost immediately all currents of conversation flowed from all sides toward this dark-eyed, handsome man, and in return the silver-tongued tide of many currents--the Irish Sea at its sparkling flood--flowed prettily and spread out from its perennial source within him, and washed and rippled gently over every separate dinner plate, so that n.o.body seemed neglected, and there was jetsam and beach-combing for all.

And it was inevitable, presently, that Murtagh Skeel's conversation should become autobiographical in some degree, and his careless, candid, persuasive phrases turn into little gemlike memories. For he came ultimately, of course, to speak of Irish nationalism and what it meant; of the Celt as he had been and must remain--utterly unchanged, as long as the last Celt remained alive on earth.

The subject, naturally, invaded the fairy lore, wild legend and lovely mysticism of the West Coast; and centred about his own exquisite work of interpreting it.

He spoke of it very modestly, as his source of inspiration, as the inception of his own creative work in that field. But always, through whatever he said, rang low and clear his pa.s.sionate patriotism and the only motive which incited him to creative effort--his longing for national autonomy and the re-gathering of a scattered people in preparation for its ma.s.sed journey toward its Destiny.

His voice was musical, his words unconscious poetry. Without effort, without pains, alas!--without logic--he held every ear enthralled there in the soft candlelight and subdued glimmer of crystal and of silver.

His was the magic of shadow and half-lights, of vague nuances and lost outlines, and the valued degrees of impinging shade. No sharp contours, no stark, uncompromising shapes, no brutality of raw daylight, and--alas!--no threat of uncompromising logic invaded his realm of dreamy demi-lights and faded fantasies.

He reigned there, amid an enchanted twilight of his own creation, the embodiment of Irish romance, tender, gay, sweet-minded, persuasive, gallant--and tragic, when, at some unexpected moment, the frail veil of melancholy made his dark eyes less brilliant.

All yielded to his charm--even the stuffed Teutons, gorging gravy; all felt his sway over mind and heart, nor cared to a.n.a.lyse it, there in the soft light of candles and the scent of old-fas.h.i.+oned flowers.

There arose some question concerning Sir Roger Cas.e.m.e.nt.

Murtagh Skeel spoke of him with the pure enthusiasm of pa.s.sionate belief in a master by a humble disciple. And the Teutons grunted a.s.sent.

The subject of the war had been politely avoided, yet, somehow, it came out that Murtagh Skeel had served in Britain's army overseas, as an enlisted man in some Irish regiment--a romantic impulse of the moment, involving a young man's crazy plan to foment rebellion in India. Which little gem of a memoire presently made the fact of his exile self-explanatory. Yet, he contrived that the ugly revelation should end in laughter--an outbreak of spontaneous mirth through which his glittering wit pa.s.sed like lightning, cauterising the running sore of treason....

Coffee served, the diners drifted whither it suited them, together or singly.

Like an errant spirit, Dulcie moved about at hazard amid the softened lights, engaged here, approached there, pausing, wandering on, nowhere in particular, yet ever listlessly in motion.

Encountering her near the porch, Barres senior had paused to whisper that there was no hope for any fis.h.i.+ng that evening; and she had lingered to smile after him, as, unreconciled, he took his stiff-s.h.i.+rted way toward the pallid, bejewelled, unanimated ma.s.s of Mrs. Gerhardt, settled in the widest armchair and absorbing cordial.

A moment later the girl encountered Garry. He remained with her for a while, evidently desiring to be near her without finding anything in particular to say. And when he, in turn, moved elsewhere, obeying some hazy mandate of hospitality, he became conscious of a reluctance to leave her.

"Do you know, Sweetness," he said, lingering, "that you wear a delicate beauty to-night lovelier than I have ever seen in you? You are not only a wonderful girl, Dulcie; you are growing into an adorable woman."

The girl looked back at him, blus.h.i.+ng vividly in her sheer surprise--watched him saunter away out of her silent sphere of influence before she found any word to utter--if, indeed, she had been seeking any, so deeply, so painfully sweet had sunk his words into every fibre of her untried, defenceless youth.

Now, as her cheeks cooled, and she came to herself and moved again, there seemed to grow around her a magic and faintly fragrant radiance through which she pa.s.sed--whither, she paid no heed, so exquisitely her breast was thrilling under the hurrying pulses of her little heart.... And presently found herself on the piano bench, quite motionless, her gaze remote, her fingers resting on the keys.... And, after a long while, she heard an old air stealing through the silence, and her own voice,--_a demi-voix_--repeating her mother's words:

I

"Were they as wise as they are blue-- My eyes-- They'd teach me not to trust in you!-- If they were wise as they are blue.

But they're as blithe as they are blue-- My eyes-- They bid my heart rejoice in you, Because they're blithe as well as blue.

Believe and love! my gay heart cries; Believe him not! my mind replies; What shall I do When heart affirms and sense denies All I reveal within my eyes To you?

II

"If they were black instead of blue-- My eyes-- Perhaps they'd prove unkind to you!

If they were black instead of blue.

But G.o.d designed them blithe and blue-- My eyes-- Designed them to be kind to you, And made them tender, gay and true.

Believe me, love, no maid is wise When from the windows of her eyes, Her heart looks through!